Through the Darkness of the Afterwards
by hallowgirlfrommars
Summary: "The way it was. And the way it is now, through the darkness of the afterwards, the way it is now." A collection of one-shots from each of the other character's POVs in the aftermath of Sherlock's "death." And of course, Sherlock might have to chip in a comment.
1. Lestrade

**Everyone excited for the new series?**

**Anyway, this is the first in a series of one-shots from each of the other character's points of view after Sherlock's "death". Thought it might be better to get it up now, since the series is back on January 1st *screams and hugs Sherlock poster.***

**Anyway, here's the first, and it's from Greg Lestrade. Leave me a review if you like it.**

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He'd be the first to say that he wished Sherlock were still here.

Lestrade always liked Sherlock, contrary to what the consulting detective thought-he was exasperated by him, frustrated by him, occasionally wanted to grab hold of his throat and ruddy _throttle _him-but he always liked him. Was fond of him, so to speak.

From the moment he first met Sherlock-when he started showing up at crime scenes six years ago-he was annoyed, he was frustrated, he was downright furious on some occasions, but he was impressed. More than impressed, and not just at his deductions, brilliant though they were. He loved Sherlock's whole way of thinking, the way his mind worked, lightning fast, leaping from thought to thought, connecting facts and conclusions and realizations in less time than it took Lestrade to remember he should really put the kettle on.

And yeah, Sherlock could be-Greg pulled at his collar ruefully-there was no other way to put it, a bloody nuisance sometimes. He was. But it was a part of that that made Greg smile. Because there was something about that-that complete unabashedness that was a part of Sherlock, a part as intrinsic as his intellect, or the contempt that would flicker across his face when he thought someone was being particularly moronic. Something about someone who was so completely themselves. So extraordinary.

Greg sometimes wondered if Sherlock was so himself because he was so extraordinary or if he was so extraordinary because he was so himself.

But now-

Greg couldn't think about it for too long. If he did, he'd go to pieces. So he worked for longer and longer hours each night, struggled to solve as many cases as possible, to catch as many criminals as there were in the city, because that-he liked to think-is what Sherlock would have wanted.

No doubt, Sherlock could have solved half these cases over the phone, but this was the best he, Greg Lestrade, could do.

The best way he could make up for ever doubting Sherlock.

Because he didn't believe what everyone else said. Never really had. Sherlock was Sherlock, and Greg had seen what he did. No matter what the others said, it couldn't be a lie. It couldn't be.

He knew that people didn't share his opinion. He knew that people thought he was crazy, that he'd been fooled the same way as everyone else.

But he knew better.

So he kept his head down and got on with his work. And he tried to ignore the fact that nowadays, on difficult cases, there was no-one to text, no-one to call. No tall figure in a trench coat, bending over a body and reciting an entire life story gleaned from the victim's fingernails. No doctor standing calmly to the side, waiting to open his mouth when Sherlock's tirade began to carry him too far. No happy answer at the end of it all, delivered with a raised eyebrow and a sigh of condescension, which Greg would accept with pleasure, simply for the benefit of knowing the truth.

They don't speak Sherlock's name anymore. They find it easier not to.

And besides, to say his name would be to remember. Remember his own split-second of doubt.

Because there had been that moment-that breath-long moment, staring at Sherlock, holding that gun, when he'd wondered if it was possible that there was anything, even a tiny, tiny fragment of truth in the accusations.

It had left his mind almost immediately-the second Sherlock had grabbed hold of John, holding the gun beside his head, Lestrade had known. No matter what happened, Sherlock-he wouldn't hurt John. Greg was almost sure. He wouldn't hurt John.

But there had been that moment of doubt. That moment, of puzzlement. That moment, of wondering.

That moment, of questioning the man he'd known for six years. Questioning the man he'd thought he was. Questioning the answers he'd always given them. Questioning the truth that he, Greg Lestrade, had always believed in without question.

That one moment of questioning. One moment of doubt.

And he couldn't get rid of that. And he couldn't forget that.

And so Greg Lestrade works harder and longer, and keeps his head down, and tries to move on, tries to complete more cases, to solve more crimes. Solve all the crimes.

Without Sherlock.

**I'll be updating this daily, so expect another one tomorrow. Please leave a review.**


	2. Sally

**Here's Part 2-Sally Donovan.**

She always knew he'd end up killing someone.

She'd known it right from the very first time she laid eyes on him-standing in his trench coat, dark curls against pale skin, that sneer curling at his mouth as he looked at her. She remembered how he talked over her the second she started to speak, relating the entirety of her previous evening activities-and just as she'd opened her mouth, to demand who the hell he was, Lestrade had stepped over, placing a hand on her shoulder, to tell her that this was the consulting detective-this was Sherlock Holmes-and that yes, she did have to put up with him.

Consulting detective-Sally Donovan snorts at the word. Not content with being different from everyone already, he'd actually had to set up his own _career-_as if it were just one more way to prove that he was too good for other people.

But there'd always been something about him-just something about the way he talked, the way he knew everything before anyone else had so much as taken a look, the way he stared at crime scenes, his eyes wide and bright, dancing with an almost unhealthy excitement-it sent a chill down her spine. It was bizarre. _He _was bizarre. And yet whenever she voiced her concerns to Lestrade, he shrugged them off, telling her that bizarre or not, Sherlock Holmes was the best detective he knew-which she interpreted as a thinly veiled insult to her and Anderson's abilities.

And yet she had to admit, she was grudgingly impressed with the man. Freak did know what he was talking about, most of the time. But there was something about it, something about the _relish _in it, the way he _looked _when he was solving something-as if he were enjoying it too much. And she'd heard him speak of murderers and crimes with a strange-_admiration _in his voice. A fascination.

Almost, if she was pushed to say it, a love.

And so she'd known. She'd always guessed that one day it wouldn't be enough for him-not enough to simply lead them triumphantly to a killer, figure out all the clues on his own. One day, he'd have to _be_ the killer. One day, he'd have to be the one running from them, watching them scratch their heads, seized with delight whenever he managed to outwit them.

Because that was what he did, didn't he?

And so that was what she kept in her head-every time he made her feel like an idiot, every time he forced someone to turn their back so he could think clearly and every single time he got to the answer before they did-which was nearly always-she forced herself to remember that one day, she'd be the one arresting him.

But he didn't seem to care.

He didn't seem to notice any of them. Not properly. He didn't seem to realise what they thought of him, her and Anderson-didn't seem to notice that Lestrade, on occasion, barely tolerated him-didn't seem to _care._

And that got under her skin. He should care. Why shouldn't he? Other people cared. He should care.

But then he wasn't like other people, was he? He didn't feel like they did.

She tried over and over again to get him to make some response-the words fell out of her mouth as easily as they had when she was a teenager and was struggling to elicit some emotion from some poor quivering kid in a playground. Something about it-these people, people that didn't care what she said, didn't want to be like anyone else-_got _to her. How could they not care what people thought? She did. Her entire life was based on what people thought. From her friends as a kid, to her colleagues as an adult-from making fun of Niamh, the kid with the lazy eye in primary school, to hiding the class nerd's textbooks in secondary, to whispering with Anderson in the police, she'd gone by what other people thought. What the safest option was.

And the safest option was not to be like Sherlock Holmes.

But he didn't care. He _never _cared.

And, for some reason, that made her needle him more and more.

And when he'd been arrested, she hadn't regretted it. In fact, she'd been proud. Triumphant, almost. She'd said it, all along, she pointed out. She'd always said he'd end up killing someone.

She just hadn't expected it to be _himself._

And when she'd heard _that-_she hadn't moved. She hadn't spoken. Because, for some reason, even when he was being arrested, she'd always taken it for granted that the freak would be there.

And now he was gone. Now he was dead.

And she hadn't expected that. She'd just never expected it. Of all the weird, out-there stuff that had freaked her out about him-_suicide _had never been on the list. Never.

And when she thought about that-it was harder than she'd imagined.

So, she just tried to forget, mostly. Just tried to move on. He was gone. She'd never see him again.

The freak was gone, and that was all she'd ever wanted, wasn't it? Since the first moment he'd shown up, she'd been thinking about the day he'd never show up again.

And now it's arrived.

But for some reason, something Sally tries to push out of her mind, as time goes on and there's more cases, more cases that drag on for weeks instead of days, more murderers that go unpunished, more calmness at crime scenes, more peace, more sanity-

For some reason, Sally can't welcome it nearly as much as she expected. For some reason, it's sometimes a lot harder to forget than she anticipated.

For some reason, there are moments-just sometimes-when she almost catches herself _missing _him.

But Sally Donovan would never tell anyone that.

After all-what would they think of her?

**Hope you enjoyed, please leave a review.**


	3. Anderson

**And here's number three-Anderson.**

It was no secret that he'd hated Sherlock Holmes.

Anderson grits his teeth at the very thought of the man-the man who always seemed to sneer at him, always seemed to know better, always seemed so supremely confident in his abilities-and he'd never been able to get the better of him. Not once.

Sherlock always beat him.

Freak, Sally called him, and Anderson was likely to agree with her. Freak was what best described Sherlock Holmes-weird, an outsider-and always, undeniably _right._

And that was what Anderson hated the most.

He'd always been the winner-at school, he'd come top in spelling bees, math tests, class projects. He'd always been the best at those things and that made up for everything else, the fact that he always came last in races, the fact that his parents always looked at his older brother-golden boy, brilliant, perfect-before him, the fact that the popular kids sneered when they looked at him. He'd been the best in his things, and he'd been contented with that.

And then in Forensics, he'd always been the best there, too.

Until Sherlock Holmes came along.

Anderson had despised the man the first time he'd set eyes on him-the way the curly-haired man had stared down at him, as though Anderson was some insect with an opinion not worth much of anything. The black-haired man had ignored all his protests-that it was a crime scene, that it couldn't be contaminated-simply sweeping past Anderson, Lestrade following with an apologetic look aimed at the rest of the team. As if Anderson's opinion was of no consequence, as if he didn't matter at all.

He'd hoped that'd be the last time this man, this Sherlock Holmes-and what kind of person had a name like that anyway?-showed up. But no, the next time a case dragged on more than a week, there he was again. With the exact same look on his face.

Anderson hadn't been the only one who'd hated him. He knew Sally loathed the man, knew that others at times barely tolerated him. But still, the tall, black-haired man kept turning up, and still, he proved everyone else wrong. Proved Anderson wrong.

But Sherlock Holmes is gone now.

Anderson wonders why he doesn't feel more pleased than he does. He should feel pleased. Holmes was a fraud. As Anderson had already suspected. Nobody could be as clever as that. Nobody. At least, he'd always hoped not.

But, deep down, there'd always been a part of him that suspected that Sherlock might be.

But it doesn't matter, now. He's gone. They'll never see him again. There's no-one to contaminate crime scenes. No-one to interrupt an investigation. No-one to constantly, constantly, prove everyone, particularly Anderson, wrong.

And Anderson is glad. Of course he is.

He didn't expect things to turn out like this, though. Not-and he fidgets uncomfortably at the mention of the word, even in his thoughts-_suicide._

He didn't ever imagine Holmes being dead. He didn't ever imagine that.

And now he is.

Anderson didn't like Sherlock Holmes. But he wouldn't have said he wished him dead.

But what can he do now?

And so Anderson works and tries to forget. And he finds it easy most of the time.

But sometimes-just sometimes-he'll hear the man's name whispered or something that sounds like it, and he'll look around. And for a moment, he'll expect to see the man standing there, with that long coat, and that black hair and that lip curled into a sneer, ready to tell them everything they're doing wrong.

And then he'll remember.

And Anderson will turn around and get on with whatever he was doing. And he'll try to forget about it. And he won't think about it.

But he will ignore it with a certain...unease.

**Hope you enjoyed it, please leave a review. Tiny little View from the Bridge reference there, with the last line...**


	4. Irene

**And number four-Irene Adler.**

She looks at the words again. And again.

The words, she's received. The text message. _She _knows who it's from, of course-but nobody else would. Not even Sherlock Holmes.

Though, by the sounds of it, Sherlock Holmes can't know anything anymore.

Irene Adler clutches the phone for a moment. Kate's not here-away somewhere, and that means she can close her eyes for a moment. Means she can press her lips together and keep her eyes closed. Just for a moment.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

Sherlock Holmes was a fake. Sherlock Holmes was a fraud.

Sherlock Holmes was made of lies.

Irene Adler shakes his head. She doesn't know what the rest of the world believes. But she knows what she knows. She doesn't think that lies can impersonate an executioner. She doesn't think that lies can get someone out of a planned murder by a terror cell.

And she doesn't think that Sherlock Holmes was any kind of fake.

Irene Adler doesn't cry. She hasn't cried in years-the last time she remembers crying was as a child, years ago. It must have been over things long forgotten-a stolen toy, a parent leaving-things that would fade away quickly, leaving only vague cries of the past to remind her.

No, Irene Adler doesn't cry. She doubts Mr. Holmes would want tears somehow.

Mr. Holmes. And her, the woman who beat him.

Though, now, it looks as though someone else has too. More than one someone else, by the looks of it. Reporters. The media. Someone who wants Moriarty to be a lie.

And Moriarty-Irene laughs at what they say about Moriarty. Moriarty, a sham. Moriarty, an actor. Sometimes, she really does have to wonder what people see in newspaper headlines. Do people _really _just believe them?

But most people do, she answers her own question. And Sherlock Holmes is dead.

And Irene Adler can't help but think. Can't help but wonder.

Sherlock Holmes, dead. Sherlock Holmes, jumped from a building.

Sherlock Holmes-and something about it doesn't add up.

Sherlock Holmes-jumped from a building roof.

Sherlock Holmes-driven to his own suicide.

Not the Sherlock Holmes she knows.

Not the one who she saw in her living room. Not the one who could still open a safe, even when she'd been watching him. Even when he'd just seen her-in every sense of the word. She smiles at that.

Not that Sherlock Holmes.

Not the one who wouldn't have dinner with her, no matter how many times she asked.

No, not that Mr. Holmes.

But there it is. Plain as day. Sherlock Holmes, dead from a suicide.

Sherlock Holmes, dead.

But somehow, Irene Adler can't quite believe it.

Somehow, she just can't.

She crosses the room and leans against a door. She stares at her phone-her new phone. Her new protection-ensured by Sherlock Holmes. After the rescue from the terror cell, of course.

Somehow, she can't picture that man-that man, that insanely cocksure, arrogant, genius that he was-she can't picture him throwing himself to the pavement.

But the facts are there. And they don't lie. And there was a body.

Make a deduction, as Mr. Holmes might say.

But even as Irene Adler closes her eyes-even as perhaps one tear slips down her cheek, a tear she'll wipe away before Kate gets home-she can't quite ignore the nagging sensation in her head. The nagging sensation that tells her something doesn't quite add up.

Even as Irene Adler wipes her eyes and turns back to the phone, she can't get rid of the feeling that there's something wrong with this picture.

**Coming up tomorrow, number five.**


	5. Molly

**Number five-Molly Hooper.**

The hardest part has to be pretending she doesn't know.

And she does, of course. She knows.

She knows, and she doesn't even hear from him.

Well, she does, sometimes-he lets her know that he's OK. Physically OK, at least, where he's hiding out. She can't know, obviously. She can't know where he is.

But she knows he's safe. And he's said thank you. Which is like a miracle, coming from him. But she knows he meant it.

But she can't tell anyone. And that's the worst part of all.

Because they all think he's dead. And John thinks he's dead.

And she has to watch and say nothing.

She has to watch John and say nothing.

If Sherlock knew...but he probably does know. He probably knows more than she does.

She thinks his brother does, too, but she can't be sure.

Molly isn't sure.

And she has to go on with her life as usual. She has to go on, and pretend to grieve, to mourn with everyone else, when all along she knows.

She doesn't know where he is. All she knows is that he's somewhere safe, and that's all he'll tell her.

All he has told her.

He hasn't spoken to her in months. Which she understands. But Molly Hooper has to say, the most difficult part of the whole thing has to be pretending she doesn't know anything, and trying to forget.

She knew it wasn't him-of course she knew it wasn't him-but it still hurt. Hurt to use that corpse, to alter it, to inflict injury on it. And not just because she'd once harboured ludicrous fantasies of being with him-fantasies which she knows now are just fantasies. He'll never be with anyone, in any sense of the word-except John, that is. And Molly doesn't even know if he'll ever see John again.

Sherlock keeps saying he'll come back, on the rare occasions she gets to know how he is, but he doesn't say how and he doesn't say when. And he doesn't say what. What he'll say to the others. How he'll get them to listen to him. How he's going to turn things around.

Molly knows that he'll figure it out, but she can't stop turning it over in her head.

And it's still hard for her to listen.

Not many people talk about Sherlock anymore. They want to forget. Want to forget that he's dead. Want to forget that he jumped. Want to forget the headlines. The headlines that they believed.

Maybe they still believe. Molly isn't sure anymore.

And Molly has to wait and watch. And she has to keep quiet.

And she's used to keeping quiet. She's been doing it all her life. From keeping quiet about her mother's visits at home-which always took place out of the house, and often when her father was away-to the bottle that stayed on her father's bedside cabinet, and which could be emptied in a matter of hours. She kept quiet when her pigtails were pulled at school, and when the first boy she liked forgot her name five minutes after speaking to her.

And of course, when Sherlock did the same thing.

But he needed her help. And when he asked her to help him, the hopeless crush she'd nursed on him for months didn't matter. He'd asked her to help.

And she knew there was something wrong.

Sherlock had never told her what-precisely-was going on. But she'd known it was something. Something that required a corpse.

And she had to stay quiet, and wait and wonder.

She knew now. She knew most of it. But it still didn't make it any easier. It didn't make it any easier, having to decorate a corpse that had looked just like him. It hadn't made it easier, to smear blood over its' head. Especially when so many things could have gone wrong.

And now?

Now she waits. Waits and waits.

She knows Sherlock will come back. She knows he has to.

Because back here, he's needed. And things won't be right, won't _feel _right until he's back again.

But Molly knows Sherlock has to wait. And until then, she's got to stay quiet.

So that's what she does.

Molly Hooper waits and watches and stays quiet. She waits and watches and stays quiet, waiting for things to be right again.

**Leave me a review if you like it.**


	6. MrsHudson

**Number 6.**

It's harder these days, without him. Far harder.

Sherlock Holmes had never been the easiest tenant-he'd never been the easiest person, full stop. But, Mrs. Hudson had loved him. She'd watched him from the moment she met him, the strange, brilliant man who had been so helpful to her-and yet seemed to have no one to help him.

And so when he'd asked her about a flat, she couldn't say no. But she'd known he'd need a flatmate, known he'd need someone to help with the rent. And no matter how much she cared for him, how much she admired the man, she knew he was no easy flatmate.

No relationship to speak of-no friends who'd share with him. She'd have thought he got lonely but he never seemed to. But then, he was Sherlock and who knew what went on in his head?

And then when that nice doctor turned up with him. John Watson-she'd tried to hide the relief that had swept through her when she'd seen him, a man willing to _live _with-willing to stay more than five minutes with Sherlock Holmes.

The two of them had moved in, and then they'd been off together that first night-off out together, turning up at a crime scene, getting home at all hours...She'd torn a strip off them in the morning for that, keeping her up waiting for them, but she'd been pleased, really. Sherlock Holmes had found someone to live with him-someone willing to spend any time with him at all, really. Apart from her.

And then the days had passed and John Watson hadn't left. He'd _stayed._ Stayed with Sherlock Holmes.

And she'd got used to it, them sprinting off at all hours, them barrelling back in in the morning, John often starving for something to eat, Sherlock's eyes still bright from the night of chasing or fleeing or capturing, his mouth still moving, forming deductions faster than most people could breathe. And John would watch him, smiling, sometimes even laughing and she'd make them a cup of tea, put some food in front of them, watch Sherlock push something into his mouth, for the first time in days, and that would be that. It was just the way things seemed to suit them.

And then there'd been that nice officer Lestrade and Molly from the mortuary and other people. Even Sherlock's brother, who if you asked her, needed to learn some manners, would pop by once in a while. It started to feel right. It started to feel like home.

It was almost like a little family, just the three of them and with everyone else coming round once in a while. A little family.

And then, that night. That night with Sherlock searching the rooms, looking for something, pulling aside books-John turning to her, shrugging, when she asked what he was on about, and then Sherlock yanking at something, saying something about_ cameras_.

She'd left then, for a moment. She knew it was different today, but honestly, she was in her _nightie_. And so she missed some of what came next.

But then the police turned up on the doorstep. That nice officer was with them, wanting to have a talk with Sherlock. Just a talk, he reassured her, before he went up the stairs. Just a quick talk. And she'd waited at the bottom, hands pressed to her mouth, before he came back down again, with a notable lack of Sherlock beside him.

And she'd thought that would be the end of it. It wasn't that she wasn't used to the police being here, by this time. Drugs busts, interviews, even Christmas parties. She knew them, by now. But she'd still wanted to know what was going on.

And then they'd come back.

This time, they hadn't waited to ask. They'd had a warrant this time, they said when John asked. And she'd never seen John like that, never seen him look at anyone that way.

But then they'd gone upstairs and when she and John had followed them, Sherlock had already been standing up with his coat on. As though he'd been _expecting_ it.

And then they'd been getting out handcuffs and putting them on him, and Sherlock just stood there. As if it was what he wanted. Not a word of protest, no fighting, nothing. And that was when she knew there was something wrong with Sherlock Holmes.

And then someone had said something-something about _weirdo, _something about _vigilante-_ and John had turned to look at him, and there'd been a sudden movement, and the next thing she knew, the superintendent's nose was bleeding and John was being led outside, too.

Now, usually, if there was anyone hurt, she'd have been the first one to give them a tissue and a warm cup of tea, but somehow, she thought the superintendent could do without either.

And then they'd been driven off, both of them. Not after a couple of gunshots, and she'd winced at first but then she'd seen it was Sherlock holding the gun and she'd smiled, knowing, _knowing _that Sherlock would have it under control.

And then she'd waited.

It had taken several hours before she'd gone to bed, several hours of pacing back and forth, waiting for them to come back. It was a cold night and she couldn't remember if they'd been wearing scarves. She bit her lip and wondered if she ought to call Sherlock's brother, but then remembered that the silly things got squabbling like a pair of kittens whenever they were in the same room.

So she'd waited and waited, until eventually she'd gone to bed, sure they'd be back in the morning, sure they'd have arrived by then. And then they hadn't, and that made her stare at the clock and worry even more. But then the decorators had come round, and so there was no time to panic.

And then John had burst through the door. She could still remember the rush of relief when she saw him, as she turned to ask him whether everything was OK, sure it would be, that Sherlock was just behind him, that the two of them had managed to sort everything out...

And then John had stared at her, his eyes widening, and his lips parting and then he'd turned and run back out the door.

She hadn't known what to do, then. She couldn't leave with decorators here, and she didn't know who to phone, and so she waited again. Waited and waited.

And then John had staggered through the door. It had been two hours, two hours since she'd last seen him. And he'd staggered into the hall. And slumped against the wall.

And his eyes had been blank. Not angry. Not raging. Nothing. Just blank.

And she'd put his hand on his shoulder and asked what was wrong. And there'd been a moment then when he hadn't spoken and she'd asked again and then he'd looked up. He'd looked up very slowly and his face had been grey and for a few moments, he'd looked like an old man, and his eyes had seemed to stare through her.

And then she'd stared at him and he'd looked back for a moment and then he said, very softly, "Sherlock's dead."

And it was after that, after he'd said it, that nothing was ever the same.

She didn't remember the first few days-the long, aching hours that seemed to stretch before them as they sat there, her head in her hands, John staring into space, ashen, his eyes glazed with what he'd seen, what he'd told her. The calls had started to trickle in. The police officers. That nice man, Lestrade, coming round, his eyes darting nervously as he tried to say how very, very sorry he was.

She hadn't looked at him. Greg Lestrade had been standing there, saying he quite understood if she didn't want to speak to him, and she felt she ought to say something but she couldn't. Because it might have been the man's job and it might have been his duty, but all she could think was that if that man hadn't arrested him, Sherlock Holmes might still be alive.

And then there'd been the reporters. People calling for comments. People wanting information. People wanting to bolster the headlines. The headlines that, the first time she'd seen one, had made her cry, her hands over her mouth until John had pushed it away from them and sat sitting away from her, his fingers digging through his hair.

The papers called him all sorts of names. Fake, fraud, prankster, liar...it went on and on, and all of it slammed next to that word. Suicide.

She couldn't have said how long it lasted, days that stretched into weeks. Aching stretches of time that seemed to be marked by food forced down and sleep that left her crying when she woke. And she didn't know how long it was until the funeral, standing there with John, watching that wooden box disappear into the earth.

They didn't go back to the flat for a while. She went back before John. She stepped into their room, their flat, 221b, and she stared around, the whole place exactly as she remembered it. A few more layers of dust perhaps. But the same. Just the same.

It had taken her a few minutes to realise she was crying. She'd closed her eyes and covered them with her hands. She'd sank down onto the couch and hidden her face, trying not to picture the tall, black-haired man standing by the window, those eyes flashing as he spoke, words quicksilver over his lips, that violin clutched in his hands.

She hadn't been back for weeks.

But slowly, she was able to go back. Somehow, it felt wrong to just leave. It was the place where he'd lived, where he'd breathed. She knew it was silly, but sometimes, when she lay in bed at night, she pretended they were there, just up the stairs, living, breathing, safe and sound. And sometimes, if she squeezed her eyes shut, she could almost hear John's fingers moving over the keys, Sherlock's bow moving over the violin strings.

At first, it hurt, but over time, it started to make her feel better. It started to remind her more and more over time. The pain that had felt like a constant stabbing had died down to a dull ache, a dull ache that never quite went away, but over time became bearable, became an accomplice throughout each day, became something to live with.

But she missed him. And her eyes still filled with tears when she thought about him. And sometimes, she had to go into her room and shut the door while she buried her face in her hands and remembered how it had been when he was here, running about, his eyes bright with the chase, his mind burning, always burning.

Sometimes, she took out the old things, the science equipment, the violin. Sometimes, she held them for a moment, looked at them. Somehow, it made her feel better, like he was here-though she kept them away, in case John should ever come round.

He hadn't, yet. She'd seen him-he made a point of taking her out for dinner at least once a week, of catching up with her-but he hadn't been back to the flat yet. And she always nodded and smiled and said she understood. But deep down, she always listened for the doorbell, wondering if she'd open the door and he'd be standing there in the doorway, that familiar smile back at his lips.

Mycroft Holmes had come round twice since Sherlock's death. And he hadn't cried. He'd offered his condolences, as if it had been her brother who'd died. He'd refused a cup of tea, twice. And if his lip had seemed to shake for a moment, if something had welled in his eyes, it had been gone in less than a second, wiped away as if it had never been.

And then at the funeral, John had seen him. The ex-soldier had taken one look at him, sworn and turned away.

She'd made to hurry after him but Mycroft had shaken his head. And something like regret had hovered in his eyes when he'd told her to let John go.

She'd asked John, afterwards, but he'd just shaken his head. Shaken his head and said it didn't matter, wasn't important. Another time, she'd have pushed the point.

But somehow, she could never find the words.

It seemed so long ago now that they'd been there, all three, together. And sometimes, she bites her lip and closes her eyes and tries to remember him. The exact glint in his eyes, the tone of his voice when he said something clever, the sound of them both coming in the door at the end of another chase, another capture, another case cracked.

And sometimes, it makes tears spill from her eyes and her feel as though her heart's being wrenched from her chest but Mrs. Hudson always tries to remember. For her, it's better to remember than to forget.

**Hope you enjoyed it, please leave a review!**


	7. Mycroft

**And Mycroft's turn.**

Mycroft's always watched his little brother, however little Sherlock thanks him for it.

He's watched him from the day he was born, when the newborn baby was placed in his arms, their father standing stiffly to the side in a suit. The baby had squirmed angrily and frowned up at Mycroft as if annoyed to find itself in someone's arms-which, knowing Sherlock, he was.

Mycroft had looked at the baby-the baby with that strange, narrow gaze, as if it was taking in everything about Mycroft already-and had kept his face schooled into a calm polite interest. He'd handed the baby carefully back to his mother, who had already been studying her new child with a world-weary look as if she was wondering how she had come to give birth in the first place. "He's fascinating." Mycroft had kept his tone as short and clipped as he could, even as his father had nodded at him once-the closest their father came to a hug.

Inside, where his parents couldn't see, Mycroft had vowed that he would always look after that baby. No matter how difficult it proved to be, Mycroft would keep the baby-the baby that would later be named Sherlock-safe.

Of course, Mycroft couldn't have predicted quite what a difficult job that would prove.

These days, he doesn't look at the headlines. Oh, he gives them a cursory glance every now and then-a quick look. But he doesn't let his eyes linger, even though he knows that Sherlock's name is barely mentioned anymore.

Perhaps, that's the real reason he doesn't look these days.

Mycroft remembers Jim Moriarty. He knows that Moriarty's finished, too-he knows that he's dead. Everyone else thinks it was a fake. An actor, a prop. A lie, like everything else.

But Mycroft isn't everyone else and he knows that was Moriarty lying on the roof. Knows that his brother's rival is dead, gone. Like his brother.

_We have what you might call-a difficult relationship..._Mycroft remembers the first time he met John-the man he'd thought might be the making of his little brother. A war veteran wounded in action-it might not have been the flatmate he'd have chosen for Sherlock, but the partnership had certainly worked out far better than Mycroft would have ever predicted. At any rate, his little brother smiled more. He talked more. And Mycroft had even heard that he'd attended a Christmas party. A Christmas party, held at _his little brother's house, _no less, and with guests that weren't dead or test subjects.

Mycroft had smiled when he heard that-though he'd never have let Sherlock see.

He wouldn't tell Sherlock that he kept the newspaper articles about him-all of them from the last year before the fall. Hat-Man and Robin-a few months ago, Mycroft was content with catching a glimpse of the words every once in a while.

He wouldn't tell anyone, but these days, he takes the headline out at least once a week.

He used to have surveillance all over Sherlock's flat-wherever Sherlock went, Mycroft would know. Or at least, he would, until Sherlock dismantled the lot, leaving it to Mycroft to set it all up again. _Never _any gratitude.

And Mycroft wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he'd gladly set up surveillance again. Set it up three times a week, five times, every day, if necessary. So long as Sherlock would be there. So long as Sherlock would be there to whine, and complain and generally make his big brother's life as difficult as possible.

_Big brother is watching, _Sherlock had once pointed out scornfully as he gestured to a CCTV camera, slumped next to Mycroft in a cab. That had been a year ago, in the days before John and before people and before he'd even seen Sherlock smile on a regular basis.

He can't remember what he replied. It seems strange to him, but these days he finds himself searching his memory for so many little details-the way Sherlock would raise an eyebrow when annoyed, the way he'd glare at his brother when Mycroft tried ordering him to do something-the way Mycroft never _could _quite make him do anything, no matter how hard he tried-or at least, not without some persuasion. There had to be something in it for Sherlock. The way Sherlock tried to refuse money or gifts or honours, that sometimes Mycroft would force on him anyway. The way whenever Mycroft heard Sherlock's voice, no matter how irritated, how insolent, how slick with contempt, there was a small wave of relief that flooded his brain, the relief that his little brother, no matter how reckless, how foolhardy, hadn't managed to get himself killed _this _time.

Mycroft's brain tries to hold onto these details, despite him telling himself firmly and repeatedly that they can do no-one any good.

Mycroft Holmes doesn't see John Watson any more. Oh, he keeps tabs on him-he makes sure the man stays alive, makes sure he's not in any danger. But he doesn't speak to him. The last time he spoke to him was the day John Watson knew the truth, knew that Mycroft had, just the one time, not been Sherlock's support, not covered for him.

The one time Mycroft had ever let his brother down. And it had been the wrong time.

Mycroft can't bring himself to read the articles these days. He can't bring himself to read the vitriol now directed at his brother.

Mycroft Holmes has never felt guilt in his life, but now he does, and it is not an emotion he is well-acquainted with.

And yet now, it's there to wake him up, a constant snag in his brain. It's there throughout his day and there to accompany him into his dreams at night. It's there-the nagging thought that the one time his little brother needed him more than ever, he wasn't there, or at least, not in the way he should have been.

Mycroft Holmes does not cry. He has not cried since he was a child and rarely, even, then. But these days, Mycroft Holmes will sometimes stop still, gripped by a sudden image of his brother. Of Sherlock, eyebrow raised, lip curled as he watches his brother with something barely above distaste. Of Sherlock, his eyes on Mycroft's-a child's eyes-as, at age seven, he turns to shout back as his brother yells at him to stop running about. Of Sherlock, as a baby, those eyes fixed on Mycroft's, not blurred with tears like most infants, but assessing him, as if taking in everything about him. Of Sherlock, Sherlock watching his brother, eyes narrowed, of Sherlock, walking away in that ridiculous coat-_flair for the dramatic-_of Sherlock, sending some sarcastic remark over his shoulder-a remark that, nevertheless, sometimes made Mycroft raise an eyebrow, a silent acknowledgement of his brother's wit-of Sherlock, just Sherlock, and that's what fills Mycroft's mind most often.

Mycroft Holmes is not a man given to emotions, but sometimes, these days, he finds himself thinking of a warning to give to Sherlock. Of some order he needs to pass on. Of some new surveillance he needs to order.

Of needing to speak to Sherlock.

And then, if he's alone and if it's quiet, he may place his head in his hands, and his breathing may quicken, and it may take him a while before he can face the world again.

And maybe occasionally, he might wake up with Sherlock's face and falling filling in his mind, and with an arm stretched ahead, as if he can reach back through time and pull his little brother back to the roof.

And maybe sometimes, his eyes are wet and it's harder to breathe and he wishes he could remember the last thing he said to his little brother. Remember properly the last time he saw him.

But that's once in a while. Stowed away, to be forgotten. To be pushed away.

After all, Mycroft Holmes isn't a man much given to emotion.

**Review if you liked it. :) I'm not sure if Mycroft knows the truth about what happened to Sherlock or not, to be honest.**


	8. John

**And, of course, John Watson.**

It doesn't go away.

It's the first thing he remembers when he opens his eyes in the morning, peeking in with the grey light. And still, sometimes, he rolls over and buries his face in the pillow, his hands clenched so tightly in the material that he wonders if he could smother himself with it.

It's there, over his shoulder, day after day, when he's sitting in the doctor's surgery. He forces himself to smile at patients over and over, tell them not to worry, he'll sort it out, it will all be OK. He tells them over and over until he almost believes it.

It's there when he goes home, stares at the silent television screen, switches on the evening news, and tries not to picture Sherlock shouting every time the newscaster reports an incorrect detail. Sometimes, there'll be a report of a murder, a break in, a terrorist attack and he'll close his eyes, but he'll still see Sherlock's face. Not distressed, eyes closing the way most others would. No, his face coming alive, eyes brighter than ever, nostrils flaring, that _life,_ that _excitement_ filling his face, something almost preternatural.

And it's there whenever he tries to fall asleep, whenever he closes his eyes, whenever he pulls the duvet tight, whenever he tries to forget. Whenever his thoughts slip into dreams, it's there. Because it doesn't matter how long he works, how little he thinks, he can never, ever run from the fact that Sherlock Holmes is dead.

And when he remembers that, sometimes he can go into his room and lie down and not get up for an entire day. And it stays there, lodged in the front of his mind, splashed across his eyes, where he can always see it, so he can never get away.

And even though it sometimes feels like a weight on his chest, crushing his ribs, slamming into his lungs, until he thinks he's going to die himself, he never wants it to go away. Because if it doesn't go away, it means it was all real.

And no matter what, he doesn't want to forget it was real. Ever.

It doesn't matter what the headlines say. It doesn't matter about the news reports, the words screaming out of the screen. _Liar, fake, fraud._ Sometimes, he pushes his hands into his eyes, screws up his face, tries to push it all out of his head, but the words still echo, over and over.

It doesn't matter how many times he tells himself they're not true. They're still there.

He doesn't remember much about the months afterwards. He remembers lying, staring up at the ceiling. He remembers Mrs. Hudson, her face creased with tears, a tissue shaking in her hand. He remembers Mycroft, his face lowered, wiped carefully blank. He remembers wondering if Mycroft would blink, would let his lips move, would show one iota of emotion. He remembers wondering if that would change when John sank his fist into the centre of his face.

He hadn't, but sometimes, he still wished he did.

And Sherlock doesn't go away. He should have known he wouldn't. Sherlock isn't someone you could forget no matter how many weeks, months, years go by. Sherlock isn't someone you can place neatly in the past, like homework or teenage love. Sherlock is there, front and centre, and demanding to be seen-not a surprise, really.

John sometimes wonders if Sherlock would be like this, if it had been the other way round. He doesn't think so. He knows Sherlock, knows him inside out, no matter how hard Sherlock's tried to push him away. He knows Sherlock doesn't cry, doesn't crumple, doesn't let his heart rule his head.

But he thinks Sherlock would show something. He knows he'd never ask him, knows he'll never know for sure. But he likes to think. He likes to think that if it had been the other way round, Sherlock would have felt something.

That's what he thinks.

It hurts, still. It still hurts. Sometimes, when he sees London, when he walks through the streets, in the evening, with darkness falling, he sees a shadow, hears a footstep dragging along the pavement, and likes to think, just for a moment. Likes to think he's about to fall into step beside him, the coat collar turned up, Sherlock's dark curls stroking pale skin as he turns to look.

Sherlock's mouth, moving lightning fast as he forms his deduction, Sherlock holding a sword in his hand for some bloody reason, Sherlock staring up at the ceiling, hands moving back and forth as he sorts through his mind palace. Sherlock, eyes looking into John's across a table as they sit down for the first time in a week. Sherlock's voice, lip curled, as he raises an eyebrow at someone who's fallen beneath expectation. Sherlock, his eyes frantic, his arms round John's shoulder. _Are you all right?_

Sherlock, looking up at the night sky next to him. _Beautiful, isn't it?_

Sherlock, just Sherlock, nearby.

Sherlock, standing on the roof. _It's my note._

His teeth bite into his skin when he thinks about it.

_Well, it's what people do, isn't it, leave a note?_

_Goodbye, John._

And then, Sherlock stepping forward.

Sherlock falling through the air.

Sherlock smashing into the pavement.

John knows he didn't see that bit, knows he couldn't have seen that bit, but that doesn't stop it playing over and over in his mind. Doesn't stop him sitting bolt upright, sheets wrapped around his body, damp with sweat, his eyes burning, his lungs gasping for breath.

He still sees Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's eyes, blank and empty. Sherlock's hand, trying to touch his skin, trying to hold onto him, blood puddling under his head...

Sherlock's eyes. And that's what he sees each night. Sherlock's eyes. Empty. Gone.

That's when he starts to shake.

He still wakes up, sometimes. He still lies awake for hours, everything about that year-that year, with Sherlock-running through his head. Everything about Sherlock. And sometimes, all he can think of is Sherlock, everything with Sherlock, that whole time, them from beginning to end. The way it was. And the way it is now, through the darkness of the afterwards, the way it is now.

But he goes on.

He doesn't enjoy it, exactly. He might smile or laugh, or even look at the sunset for a moment, notice that it's beautiful. He doesn't cry all the time.

But mostly, he just goes on. Each day. Breathing. Living.

He tries. And it's getting better.

It is.

But it's always there. A dull. constant ache in his chest. An emptiness that follows him around. It's like reaching out for someone's hand and grasping at nothing, overbalancing at the last moment, falling into space, falling, when you'd thought there'd always be a barrier.

And sometimes, it's so heavy and aching and sharp that he has to curl up on the couch and close his eyes and just try to breathe.

And sometimes, he doesn't think he'll ever get up again.

But mostly, he just tries to go on.

He misses him. Every single day. And every morning, when he drags himself out of bed, he grits his teeth and even though he hasn't always been one for promises and vows, he decides something.

He decides to keep going on.

It's not simple. And it hurts. But he keeps going.

And he keeps remembering. Because he wants to remember always.

Because years from now, years in the future, he wants to remember the man called Sherlock Holmes. He wants to remember that Sherlock Holmes was here, and his best friend, and the greatest man he ever knew.

He wants to remember Sherlock.

And maybe that's all he can do. But maybe that's enough.

**Leave a review if you liked it. :)**


	9. Sherlock

**And the final part-Sherlock Holmes.**

Sherlock Holmes has never missed people before.

He watches them, sometimes. Hiding isn't staying away. The best method of disguise is to hide in plain sight.

And so he watches them.

It's strange. He'd known they'd grieve, of course. _Five stages of grief, typical psychological process._ He'd expected that, and he'd been prepared for them to wait a few months, spend time crying, talking, visiting the grave. Sentiment.

But it's been longer.

Sherlock doesn't like being wrong and on certain points he hadn't been. They began to go back to their lives as he'd expected. They went back to their everyday things, they went back to each other, they went back to normal. As he'd expected they would.

But something was still wrong.

Sherlock's brow furrows as he focuses on the problem. It doesn't make sense. It's been several months, as is customary with the grieving process. They have all cried, expressed emotion, as they are expected to do. And now they obviously understand that he is dead.

But they are not moving on.

Sherlock doesn't understand, which he doesn't like and so he struggles to work it out. They've been grieving for months. They've had a funeral, visited a grave. They have accepted that he's dead. It naturally follows that they should be returning to normal life now.

But there's something wrong.

Sherlock can't explain it, which isn't good. But something about them is different, when he sees them. They seem greyer, quieter, walk with their heads down, arms crossed tight, as if they're colder. Their eyes, when he's close enough to see, seem emptier, somehow, blanker. Dead.

And that doesn't make sense.

Sherlock doesn't understand, and he hates that he doesn't understand. It should make sense. They should be returning to normality, some _complete_ normality, not a version of it. But instead, they're like this.

He doesn't understand.

And they still cry sometimes. He sees them, occasionally. Mrs. Hudson, dabbing at her eyes as she waits at the bus stop. Lestrade-even _Lestrade,_ for God's sake-turning his head away, blinking hard at crime scenes.

And John. He still sees John.

And John doesn't cry.

He watches John as much as he can. It's strange. He can't talk to John obviously-he suspects it would take John a while to understand the data, no matter how carefully it was explained-and usually, that would mean that the watching is pointless. But for some reason, it isn't. He doesn't mind watching John. He likes to do it.

Sometimes, when John goes inside, and it isn't as easy, he feels a strange sinking feeling, like disappointment.

But he can't speak to him.

And that leads Sherlock to thinking about something else recently, something else that's bothered him. He wants to see people.

Not talk to them. Not for long, anyway. But he finds himself looking forward to seeing them. Almost as if he enjoys it.

Which is strange because Sherlock's never looked forward to seeing people. Except John, but that's different. Now, he looks forward to seeing, even from a distance, other people.

It's strange. He's never looked forward to it before. But now he does.

It takes him a while but then he thinks that he supposes that's what's known as _missing _someone.

Strange. That he misses them. He's never missed people before. He supposes John could explain it but he can't ask him.

He frowns. Maybe John misses him. Maybe that's the reason for the lack of a return to normality.

Interesting theory.

Sherlock frowns. He supposes that might be the truth and that he might be supposed to do something about it but there isn't anything. He's just going to have to wait. He's never been good at waiting.

Still, it's necessary.

So, he waits. He waits and watches, biding his time. Waiting for the right moment.

Waiting to tell them the truth.

**And finished. Leave a review if you liked it. :)**


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